Irene said goodbye to Admiral Morrison and Boris as she stepped out of the staff car. She
turned and began to walk up the tree-lined path toward the entrance to her apartment as the
admiral’s official limousine pulled away, turned the corner, and headed back toward the
highway.

Deep in thoughts about the strange events of the day, she didn’t notice the early buds on
the trees brought out by the recent prolonged stretch of unseasonable warm weather. Instead,
totally preoccupied with thoughts of her quick helicopter flight down to Washington and her first
meeting with the President of the United States, she pondered over troubling images that the
meeting had produced.

A few blocks away a speeding van raced along Jefferson Davis Highway, careened wildly out of
control, and bore down on a nearby busy intersection. Brakes squealed, horns blasted, and people
screamed. The sleek black staff car with white fender flags that displayed the four-star rank of
Admiral Morrison approached that intersection. The driver, seeing the havoc and its potential
danger directly in front of him, braked hard and left smouldering black skid marks on the road.

A police cruiser’s ominous siren bellowed its warning wail. Strobe lights flashed as it plunged its
way through scattering traffic on the highway. It swerved in and out of cars driven by unnerved
drivers as it mimicked the crazy maneuvers of the van it chased.

The admiral’s driver managed to bring the big limousine to a safe screeching halt just short of the
highway.

Thankful their seat belts held, the admiral braced himself and watched as the approaching
high speed chase closed swiftly on the road in front of them. He readjusted himself in his seat
and said, “Probably another looter. A lot of people – ”

His words were cut short in mid-sentence as the floor of the limousine erupted and hurled
him, Boris, and the driver, through the roof of the car. The force of the explosion tore the staff
car apart, dismembered its occupants and hurled pieces of jagged metal and body parts all over
the intersection.

The explosion generated a shock-wave that radiated outward and upended the overloaded
van as it cut directly in front of the disintegrating staff car. The van’s side imploded as the force
of the blast propelled the decapitated limousine engine into it.

Struck broadside by the heavy engine, the van became momentarily airborne and was
nearly demolished. It rolled over, landed on its roof, skidded across the intersection, spilled its
contents, and tore through stunned onlookers as they stood and gaped at the chaotic scene in front
of them. The overturned van continued its grinding slide across the sidewalk leaving a fiery trail
of sparks, broken bodies, TV sets, VCR's, silverware and other household items in its wake
before it finally came to a stop in a hotel lobby where its gas tank ruptured and ignited.

An eerie stillness descended and belied the crescendo of noise that accompanied the cataclysmic
activity that had just unfolded. It lasted only moments. Shock gave way to comprehension. Cries
of the wounded and horrified shouting of onlookers, rose in harsh discordant sounds of disbelief
and despair as the impact of the surrounding carnage and destruction took hold.

The wail of a siren droned down as a police car, its multicolored flashing strobe lights
muted by heavy smoke and dust, screeched to a stop behind a tangled mass of cars and trucks.
Uncontrollable vehicles had crashed into each other as their drivers failed in their frantic attempts
to avoid flying debris and the skidding juggernaut that had crossed their path.

In the moments before the explosion, Irene, still lost in her thoughts, had remained unaware
aware of the rising sounds of screeching brakes and the approaching police siren back on the
highway. But then the overpowering sound of a powerful explosion jolted her out of her deep
contemplation. The spine jarring impact of the thunderous blast shattered the normal stillness of
the afternoon and caused a shockwave of inexplicable, nervous anticipation to rise up within her.
Primal, fearful instincts commanded her. She turned at once and began to run back toward the
sound of the explosion.

Bizarre thoughts tumbled through her mind of nuclear bombs, the White House, the
President's lies, and a sinister premonition that involved the President, the CIA Director and her
friends. “Oh, I hope Boris and the Admiral are okay!”

She feared the worst and ran toward the intersection where a devastating, chaotic sight
materialized. Her apprehension increased as she focused on several wrecked vehicles and twisted
illogical debris laying everywhere she looked. Acrid fumes from burning gasoline, engine oil,
and other gaseous by-products of the explosion, assaulted her senses. Smoke, dust, and repulsive
stenches of burning flesh were nearly enough to make her turn away, but she had to know if the
admiral's car had been involved.

She fumbled through her pocket book, found a handkerchief, held it over her face and
confronted the devastation. She peered hard through the hazy smoke at grotesque shapes of
twisted pieces of cars, trucks, and smoldering body parts scattered over the intersection. The staff
car was nowhere to be seen.

“Thank God! Whatever happened didn't – ” The thought froze in her mind as her eyes
focused on a familiar object. “Oh, Oh . . . Oh my God! What have they done?”

There in the street, still attached to a black fender, eerily visible in a shaft of sunlight
shining down through rising smoke, she forced her tearing eyes to focus on the soot smudged,
partially burned, gently fluttering flag, with four stars on it.

Riveted to the sight in front of her, she began to retch uncontrollably. No one paid
attention to her. Just one more onlooker repulsed by the carnage in the intersection. Finally, the
retching subsided. She turned away from the fluttering flag that assaulted her senses, her limp
arms dropped to her sides, her handbag dangled from its strap held in her hand, and her mind
groped for some sense of meaning for what must have happened. Instinct took control.

“They killed them!”

And then she realized that she had been just moments away from having been caught in
that explosion.

“They want us dead! They wanted to kill me too! I've got to get out of here!”

She began to function again and looked nervously around to see if anyone was listening to
her. Everyone was either scurrying away or mesmerized by the tragedy that had unfolded in front
of them. Now in mortal fear for her own safety, and without taking a backward glance toward her
apartment, she moved away from the grotesque scene and headed in the opposite direction. Her
mind numbed from shock, she forced herself to accept the horrible truth.

As she walked along the sidewalk, dodging others, she mumbled to herself. “Why? Poor
Arnie and Boris are dead. Dear God, please help me. I’ve got to get away, but how? Where can I
go?”

✬

Chapter Two

With no plan, and not daring to set a foot in the intersection, she followed the easiest
route away from the hellish scene that she believed was surely the evil work of the devil – or one
of his disciples. She walked as if in a trance past familiar buildings with well-manicured garden
approaches and made her way against the flow of people moving toward the tragedy.

Three blocks to the north she entered Stouffer’s restaurant and found her way into the
ladies room. Still shaking, she sat quietly in an end booth where she tried hard to regain control.
Her mind raced. They killed Arnie and Boris – they don’t want anyone to be able to expose their
lies – I would have died too! Why! Why! Why!

Unable to grasp any rational reason, she resolutely pushed away the overwhelming agony
of the haunting image of the partially burned flag with the four stars and began to relive the
events of her visit earlier that day to the White House:

The President’s words echoed in her head.

My fellow Americans, I want you to know the threat to our cities is over. There are no, I
repeat, there are no atomic bombs threatening any of our cities. We have established that it was a
cruel hoax perpetrated by a low level diplomatic representative to the UN who had operated as an
independent agent.

In spite of his diplomatic status he is being detained and we are in direct consultation with
his government. It is important now that you give maximum support to maintaining law and
order in our great country.

So, I say to all you good citizens of this great and resilient country, go in peace back to
your homes. And in the immortal words of one of our greatest leaders, who saw us through a
most difficult period in our history, I say once again to a great and courageous people, we have
nothing to fear except fear itself. Good night and God Bless us all.

Then the President smiled at the admiral and Boris, and looked past them for a fleeting
instant directly at Hubert Hamilton, the director of the CIA . . .

Irene gave no consideration to the clarity of her emotionally driven recollection wherein the
entire sequence of events that had moved by so fast then, could now be recalled down to the most
minute detail. In a deep, emotion driven response her mind continued to replay the day’s
happenings:

Hubert Hamilton made his exit right after the President looked at him.

The President walked out of his office followed in turn by the Vice President and several
others.

She, the admiral, and Boris left the White House.

Admiral Morrison's staff car waited at the side entrance.

The admiral’s comment in the car as they pulled away. Words fail me. I just don’t know
what to say. He made it sound almost as if he were telling harmless little white lies.

White lies! She said. This is what I would expect in the Soviet Union. I'm devastated. I
must go to my apartment. Please drop me in Crystal City?

The heavy traffic coming back into the city, so many people returning to their hastily
abandoned homes and leaving the outbound lanes unused.

The trip from the White House to her Crystal City apartment in record time.

The admiral, sitting bare headed with his unruly, normally well-groomed, white hair
askew, not seeming to have much more to say.

Boris, speechless, shrugged.

Her tenseness giving way to becoming pensive.

The admiral said, Oh, here we are Irene. Have a good night’s rest. I would like to meet
with you and Boris in my office tomorrow.

Yes, Admiral, she said. That’s a good idea. I'll see you then.

She said goodbye, closed the door, walked away and didn’t look back.

She snapped back to the present and the danger she might have to face when the ubiquitous 'they'
learn she hadn’t been killed in the explosion. The thought of Arnie and Boris so uselessly
sacrificed caused her to fight off a wave of nausea as she said aloud, “For what?” She caught
herself, looked around and made certain no one was there to hear her. She didn’t want to explain
her sudden outburst to any nosy others.

Ten minutes later, a different appearing lady emerged from Stouffers. Gone was the fashionable
hat and the up-sweep. She had loosened her long auburn hair to flow naturally around her face,
down her back, and inside her coat. Wearing her sunglasses in her hair, she thought, This will
have to do, few people know me looking like this. Then as she looked around she said, “Oh,
there's a phone booth.”

The operator gave her the number. She deposited the required change and dialed the
Annapolis Yacht Club. Several anxious minutes passed while the person who answered located
the man she wanted to speak with. She gasped as he came on the line and said, “Yes, this is Bob
Berria. What did you say your name is?”

✬

Chapter Three

“Irene, Irene Michals,” she said, “I know your brother Frank – I must speak with him! It's
very urgent! Please, can you help me? I’m desperate. I must speak with Frank!”

Bob heard the anguish and near hysteria in the voice on the other end of the phone. He
didn't know to what extent his brother may have been involved in the atomic bomb scare that the
President had just revealed to be a hoax. At the same time he sensed a connection and said, “Miss
Michals, I don't know how I can help you. Can you tell me why you want to speak to my
brother?”

“Please, Mr. Berria, your brother and my dead husband were good friends at the
university.”

“Yes, yes, you know about him then, and that he reportedly died here in an explosion, but
really he was killed in the Soviet Union last summer.”

Bob was aware of both details, and that he was talking to the widow of the man
responsible for the events that had led to the death of his father. His mind raced now as he tried
to understand why this distraught lady wanted to find Frank, but before he had time to think, he
was jolted by a new revelation.

“Your brother – he worked for Admiral Morrison who has just been killed – killed by the
same people who I'm sure want to kill me too.”

“Admiral Morrison, dead! How do you know this?”

“I just left him when . . . when . . . when his car blew up. It was terrible – Boris
Kaminetsky, he was with him. He's dead too. Please . . . please help me find your brother . . .
There's no one else I can turn to.”

The frightened pain in the woman's voice penetrated deep into Bob's emotions. For a
moment, his mind flashed back to Vietnam as he recalled the anguished cries of fallen comrades.
Hearing a genuine plea for help again grabbed the emotional center of his brain. He reacted
almost automatically, as chivalrous men have done countless times down through the centuries.

“Miss Michals, I'll do what I can to help you.” He heard an audible gasp followed by a
burst of sobbing. “Please get hold of yourself! I need you to be calm. Tell me. Where are you?”

“In . . . in, Alexandria . . . Crystal City . . . by Stouffers.”

“What's happening there? Are things getting back to normal?”

“There's a lot of traffic. I think people are trying to get back to their homes.”

“Do you think it's possible to find a taxicab?”

“I don't know. I can try. Where do you want me to go?”

“Not far, to the airport, it's a short cab ride from where you are. When you get there, go to
the main terminal. Find a gift shop, and make a cash purchase of a bright kerchief. Then walk
over to the civilian terminal, and have a seat in the waiting area. When you arrive there, put the
kerchief on. I'll have someone come to meet you. Don't call again unless you run into a problem.
If you have to call, use a different phone and don't use a credit card – especially at the airport.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. I'll do that. Thank you.”

Irene had no problem finding a taxi. There were more taxis than passengers, and the driver of the
one she got into seemed pleased to take her to the airport where business would be better.

Thirty-five minutes later, seated in the civilian terminal waiting room wearing an orange
kerchief, she tried not to notice the other people. They paid scant attention to her. Aside from its
intended purpose, the kerchief altered her appearance in a way that made it less likely that anyone
might recognize her. She also noticed that there was only one other lady seated in the waiting
area, and she was wearing a small hat.

She settled down, hoping some how to break out of this nightmare. She thought about the
reassuring sound of Bob Berria's voice as he took total charge of her actions and wasted no time
on formalities. Thank goodness I had seen the news report of his arrival back in the United States
and that he was still here. He seemed cool at first when he understood who my husband was –
and didn't seem to respond to my telling him that Fyodor hadn't really died here, but he reacted
quickly when he learned Admiral Morrison was killed. He must have known him also, I guess
that's a natural conseq –

“Miss Michals.”

Startled, she looked up as she heard a man's quiet voice speak her name. A moment of
panic ran over her, until she heard the man that spoke her name continue to speak in a subdued
voice.

“Bob Berria, asked me to meet you.”

A tall brown haired man with military bearing, dressed in casual clothes, sat next to her
and leaned close to keep their conversation private.

Irene looked searchingly into the man’s friendly eyes and felt a sense of compassion there
as she said, “Yes, I'm Miss Michals. I'm so glad you're here.”

“I'm glad I found you. Bob asked me to bring you to him. I have a small plane here. I
hope you don't mind flying in one.” Jim Boland said, as he helped Irene to her feet and gently
guided her along with him.

“No, no, not at all! Anything, to get away from here.”

They exited the terminal and walked out on the tarmac toward a group of private aircraft. Jim's
plane was parked on the end of the first row. He helped Irene climb aboard as he said, “My name
is, Jim. I sail with Bob aboard the Dragon lady. He asked me to do this air taxi job on a top
priority basis. So in a little while we'll be setting down in Annapolis where his boat is berthed.”

“Thanks for coming for me. I’m very grateful to you.” She didn't elaborate and noted that
Jim didn't press for any details. He and Bob must be very good friends.

The plane, a twin engine amphibian, was ideally suited for Jim's excursions, considering that he
spent a lot of time aboard the Dragon Lady. Weather and water conditions were good to excellent
for flying and for making a water landing in the Chesapeake Bay opposite the Annapolis Yacht
Club.

Jim made last minute preparations with the tower as he made the plane ready to roll out
on the runway. Irene sat nervously in the seat alongside him, anxious to get away from there. She
had thoughts that at any moment somebody from the government would stop them. There was
little or no air traffic as things hadn’t yet got back to normal, so Jim was cleared for takeoff
almost immediately.

They roared down the runway. Irene’s heart beat faster than ever as she told herself, We’ll
be safe as soon as we leave the ground.